


Bad Food and Worse Advice

by tuppenny



Series: Scars [6]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Sex, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny
Summary: Jack asks Spot for advice.





	Bad Food and Worse Advice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therudestflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/gifts).



> Happy birthday (1 day early) to therudestflower, who asked for Spot to make an appearance in the Scars AU! Many happy returns, and may this year be a wonderful and fulfilling one for you! <3 (Not sure if this is what you were looking for, but... here's what happened.)
> 
> This is set at the end of Jack and Katherine's college career, a couple of weeks before they graduate.

“Kelly.” 

“Conlon.”

“Thanks for coming.”

Spot gave Jack a manly upwards nod of recognition in lieu of responding verbally. Jack picked up the sticky laminated menus and slid one across to Spot.

“So,” Jack said, setting the menu down after a cursory ten seconds of scanning to see if anything had changed since they’d been here four months ago (or was it five?), “How was Bulgaria?”

“Good,” Spot said, ripping the paper wrapper off his straw and balling it up with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Good.” 

They sat in silence for a bit, sipping on their drinks, staring at nothing, listening to the hum of the diner around them.

“They got hamburgers there?” Jack tried again. “French fries?”

Spot snorted. “It ain’t like I studied abroad on the moon, moron,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s in Europe. It’s in the European Union. Hell, they was _president_ of the European Union last year.” 

“Hey now, don’t gimme that—four months ago, you thought the European Union was a clothing store,” Jack reminded him.

Spot reached for a handful of ketchup packets and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans. “Fine. They got hamburgers an’ French fries,” he grumbled. 

“Nice.” 

“Yeah.” 

A middle-aged waitress came to take their order, whipping out her notepad with a flair exhibited only by waitstaff with extensive experience and a taste for the theatrical.

“Hamburger an’ fries for me, please,” Jack said. “An’ hot sauce, if ya got it?”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said, turning to Spot. 

“Onion rings,” he said firmly. “A large. An’ a large meatloaf.”

The waitress jotted it down and left. 

“They got yogurt, too,” Spot said.

“Huh?”

“In Bulgaria. They got yogurt.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “You eat yogurt now?”

“ ‘S good,” Spot shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. “It's got like… healthy bacteria an’ shit.” 

“Right,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow and reaching up to adjust his ratty baseball cap. He looked beyond Spot to the sidewalk outside, his eyes flicking back and forth as he watched the people and cabs and dogs pass by. 

“Got a job there,” Spot volunteered after another long pause.

Jack’s attention startled back to Spot. “What?”

“In Bulgaria. Flyin’ back out there next week.” 

“The hell you are.”

“Fuck you,” Spot said, sliding off the sticky vinyl upholstery. “I don’t gotta take that.” 

“No, no, I ain't— I’m just surprised, is all,” Jack said, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I wasn’t doubtin’ ya, Spot. Not one bit. So ya got a job in Bulgaria. That’s great. Congrats.”

Spot narrowed his eyes and scanned Jack’s face.

“I mean it,” Jack insisted. “Seriously. Just surprised. C’mon, dummy, sit down. Eat your lunch. I’ll pay.”

“What, do you got a job, too?” Spot asked, slowly lowering himself back into the booth.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I… I just gotta pick an offer, is all.” 

Spot gave a low whistle, impressed. “Is that whatcha wanted my advice on, then? Friends all too far up your ass ta be honest with ya about which offer is best?”

“Nah,” Jack shook his head, “It ain’t about that at all. I got that handled.” 

“That so.”

“Yeah,” Jack said sharply. “As a matter of fact, it is. An ya know what?” He said, standing up. “F’rget it. Askin’ ya here was a mistake. I’m gonna head—”

“Aw, c’mon,” Spot broke in. “Sit. You say you got it figured out, you got it figured out. What’s the real problem, then?” 

Jack rolled his right shoulder and then sat, a mulish look on his face. “Ya gotta keep it ta yaself.” 

Spot took one of Jack’s French fries and chewed lazily. “Kelly,” he said, reaching for another fry and grinning when Jack shoved his hand away. “I’s the soul of discretion.” He laid a hand over his heart. “Brooklyn boys keeps their word,” he said loftily. “Unlike Manha—” 

“Don’t,” Jack warned. “Just don’t.” His eyes took on a wicked glint. “ ‘Sides, you’s a Bulgarian boy now.” 

Spot glowered. “I ain’t never gonna be a Bulgarian boy. What the fuck kinda—”

Jack laughed until he choked. “Bulgarian boy,” he wheezed. “Sounds dumb as shit.”

“Yeah, it does,” Spot said, “So don’t push it. Ya want my help or not, idiot?” 

“Yeah,” Jack said, settling back down. “Yeah, I, uh… I want your opinion on… well, it’s…”

“Girl trouble?” Spot said knowingly, a forkful of meatloaf halfway to his mouth.

Jack’s eyes widened, and then he nodded. “Yup,” he muttered, staring down at his plate. “I mean, I _think_ so,” he said, bravely meeting Spot’s gaze again. “That’s kinda what I want you ta tell me. Am I in trouble or not.”

Spot barked a laugh. “If you’s askin’ _me_ , you’s definitely in trouble.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Jack groaned, leaning forwards and covering his face in his hands. “You's right. I’m so gone over her, I can’t even…” 

Spot snickered. 

“Not helpful,” Jack snapped.

Spot shrugged. “Look,” he said, chewing on three onion rings at once. “You’s twenty-fuckin’-two, Kelly. An’ I get that ya don’t always know a bird’s age at first, but I’m hopin’ she’s at least… well, age of consent an’ all that.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Spot,” Jack gritted out. “Can we not?”

“You started it!” Spot objected, holding up his hands. Then he scooted in a little and lowered his voice. “She is, though, right?” 

“Yes,” Jack growled. “She’s twenty-fuckin’-two, ya dirty pervert. Same as me.”

“Good,” Spot said, settling back against the red vinyl cushions. “Then just tell her.” 

“It ain’t that simple,” Jack said. “She’s—dammit, Spot, if you’d ever seen her, if you’d ever met her—”

“I’m assumin’ the reason you’s askin’ me is ‘cause I ain’t done either of those things,” Spot said, “Soooo….”

“Yeah,” Jack sighed. “I just… Spot, she’s kinda already… I mean, I only known her a coupla months an’ she’s already like… she’s like one of my best friends, ya know? An’ when I ain’t with her I’s thinkin’ ‘bout her, an’ when I ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout her my hands is drawin’ her, an’ I…” he shook his head and brushed at his nose. “I can’t risk it. We’s good as we is, an’ I can’t mess it up just ‘cause I…” 

“Just ‘cause ya need ta get laid?” Spot deadpanned, claiming another fistful of ketchup packets.

“She ain’t like that,” Jack said sharply. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Sheesh, don’t cream your pants,” Spot said, throwing his balled-up straw wrapper at Jack. “All I’m sayin’ is ya need a little release, ya know? Help ya clear your head.” 

“I just toldja—”

“I don’t mean with her if ya don’t wanna do that,” Spot said. “Just—find a fuckbuddy, okay? I’m sure ol' what’s-her-face’ll do it; she's always had a soft spot for ya, an' she was good in high school, right?” 

“Yeah,” Jack said, scrubbing his face as he thought. “Yeah. An' she’s gotten even better since, too.” 

“Really?” Spot said, admiration in his voice. “Nice. Do her, then.” 

“Yeah,” Jack said, considering. “Yeah, that could work.” He took his ballcap off to scratch at his scalp and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Get this whatever this is outta my system, keep this gal as a friend, graduate, an’ move on ta the real world. An’ there’s lotsa hot guys an' chicks in the real world, so I’m sure that part'll fade once I… I mean, hell, she might not even wanna stay friends after we graduate, so…” Jack brushed at his nose. “Shit. Just gotta wait an’ see, I guess.”

“Or you could fuck her now an’ see immediately.”

“Not an option,” Jack said firmly. “We’s friends. Friends first. I like her too much ta screw that up.” 

Spot rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” 

“Oh, fuck off ta Bulgaria,” Jack said, throwing a dirty napkin at Spot.

“I’m gonna,” he said. “On Sunday.” 

“Nice,” Jack said appreciatively, dipping a fry in ketchup. “Who’da thought, Spot Conlon’s found a home away from home on the other side o’ the world. Guess Brooklyn weren’t big enough for ya after all, huh?” 

Spot laughed. “Come visit sometime,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his eyes. “I’ll show ya around.” 

“Hmm,” Jack said, pretending to consider it. “You gonna feed me some o’ that yogurt when I’m there or what?” 

“You bet,” Spot said, shifting into a genuine grin.  

“Cool,” Jack said, munching on his hamburger. “Count me in.”   

**Author's Note:**

> Spot gives terrible advice, honestly.


End file.
